My Distaste for Humanity

I'm sitting, between shifts, at one of those lousy chain restaurants with more TV's than anyone knows what to do with, all showing different sports related tickers and information nearly sending me into an epileptic seizure, simply because I wanted spaghetti for lunch and wasn't willing to spend a Harvard Square fortune for a pretentious small plate of significantly better quality fare to suppress my hungover stomach. The music is - as expected - louder than need be and a contemptible, corporate approved collection of instrumental, sophisticated, cool jazz, smooth R&B and lounge music. The bartender, Allison, as she makes sure each and every customer knows, is an overly perky - must be highly medicated or supremely depressed - twenty something screeching corporate restaurant hyena and is yelling something about a special Rolling Rock deal at me to which I must have nodded as I ended up with a 220z beer in front of me, but in reality I was distracted by her dark banana curled pony tail garnished with a pink ribbon, and the two curled tendrils hanging in her face.
Everything in her life is "So good!" "So Awesome!" or "So Perfect!" and I know so because she let all of her patrons know. She is thrown, only briefly, from her obnoxiously peppy nature by a customer named Lorraine - which incidentally is the name of Allison's grandmother and thus in turn her sisters middle name - who is a woman whose size alone is cause for discomfort. She stands easily near six feet tall, shoulders like a lineman and a protruding gut on which her large breasts rest. After her $2.75 Rolling Rock to which she added three olives (?), she and Allison get into a discussion, nearly an argument, about mixed drinks and the excess of any mixed drink being poured down the drain. She wanted Allison to make her a Pina Colada and add the alcohol after the mix was made so no portion of her shot, 2 oz of Bacardi rum ended up going down the drain. Eventually, and reluctantly, Allison did, but only after threats from Lorraine involving the Better Business Bureau as well as the Attorney General, as if he has nothing better to worry about except the fraction of a shot of sub par rum mixed with coconut and ice being dumped into her clearly alcoholic glass.
She somehow lured me into the discussion where, after asserting that I am a waitress, I clearly had the back of the supremely obnoxious server who only moments before I was imagining bound and gagged in a completely non-sexual way. My support of the bartender only led to more adamant and outrageous arguments from Lorraine, in her Patriots embroidered jean jacket, her hair slicked back into a tight bun and her sunglasses resting on the crown of her head. Eventually, mostly because I couldn't hide my contempt for Lorraine's existence any longer, I conceded my position, flipped open my notebook and proceeded to reproduce the experience there so as to avoid any more conversation with either party on that or any subject. A song whose chorus keeps repeating the phrase "Popsicle toes" plays in the background. It's well past time for me to get out of this mass-produced hell hole.